


just like the white winged dove

by light_loves_the_dark



Series: a better world [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Queen Sansa, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, I kinda feel bad for tommen here, SO, Sansa is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, the petyr/sansa is implied but also shoved in your face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 06:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13288500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: Sansa Baratheon had never been a lion; she was a Stark. She had teeth and claws and sharp edges.She was a wolf.-AU where Sansa marries Tommen instead of Margaery.





	just like the white winged dove

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a prompt on tumblr a couple of months ago, recently realized it fit into my outline of this universe, and expanded it for you guys. 
> 
> Sorry I keep taunting you guys by writing in a universe with petyr/sansa as soulmates but not writing any interactions lol. I'm 3000 words into the next part, and it's all interactions. Trust me. 
> 
> I think how the plot diverges is clear here, but if you're super confused, lmk. 
> 
> You might want to read the first story in this series first, but you don't have to. 
> 
> title from 'edge of seventeen' by stevie nicks

Tommen didn’t know what to think of his new wife, not really. 

She was quiet and meek in the company of his family, but she came alive when they were alone, smiling and giggling and staring at him with innocent eyes. She was an acquiescing goddess on their wedding night, soothing him with whispers of care and affection despite the tears streaming from both of their cheeks.

They were not soulmates, but Tommen was okay with that. He had not been born with a mark, and Sansa had promised him that there were no words on her body either. Tommen thought that maybe this made them soulmates of a different kind. Both unwanted, quiet people who wanted nothing of the throne on which they rested. Neither of them wanted this, but still, Sansa made each day bearable.

She held his hand when his uncle was sentenced to death for the murder of his brother. She held it when they walked through the city together, carrying on the work of Margaery Tyrell, who was deep into her mourning of his brother. Margaery and Sansa had tea frequently, whispering between their fingers to each other. It was one of the few times that Sansa’s eyes were ever bright. Sansa assured him that she was helping Margaery in her time of grief, which sounded much like something his compassionate wife would do. Then she would wrap his hands in hers, pulling him into a nook to give him a sweetly innocent kiss.

It quickly became a symbol of hope for him, looking down and seeing their hands entwined.

He held hers too, usually when her head was bowed in shame as his mother scolded her for a bad performance. He couldn’t understand why his mother was so upset; after all, she had chosen Sansa as his wife over Margaery. Tommen had preferred Sansa anyway, after she had spent so much time with him, the forgotten Lannister child, when she had arrived in King’s Landing. But it was the Queen Mother’s choice, and Cersei told him it was because Margaery was grieving and Sansa was much better suited as a pure maiden, but Tommen wasn’t stupid. He knew how much his mother hated the North, but she hated and distrusted the Tyrells more. Sansa, to her, was not confident, was malleable, but Tommen only saw a broken and kind girl. So he held her hand through her scoldings, staring defiantly forward. Sometimes later, in the middle of the night, when she cried about her family, he clasped it even tighter. Tommen began to resent each tear that fell, whether it was caused by her past or those that should consider her family. He wondered if his mother understood that Sansa was meant to be a queen. 

He wondered if, broken and kind as she was, Sansa herself understood.

He protected his wife the only way he knew how, by caring about her. He sent men that he trusted to follow her and keep her from those who would cause her any harm. Luckily, Sansa spent most of her time with the ladies of the court, who had accepted her back into their fold after the coronation. She also spent an inordinate amount of time with Littlefinger, but when he asked, she told him that she was attempting to further her understanding of the Crown’s debts.

It was their only true fight, however brief it was. Tommen had walked into the Master of Coin’s solar to find him leaning over Sansa who was seated, pointing out different items in his ledger and quizzing her. On the surface, it looked perfectly innocent, but Tommen had sensed something strange between them, deep, _ancient_ even, and anger had filled him before he could push it back down.

After all, _some_ part of him was his mother’s son.

He had pulled Sansa out of the room by the wrist, marching her to their apartments. He had ignored the depth of the longing in Baelish’s expression; he was a whoremonger, and Sansa was undeniably beautiful. He had not seen the blossoming of a reciprocal expression on Sansa, or else maybe it would have all ended differently.  

He had cried, asking her why she had stood so close, so familiarly, with a man that wasn’t her husband. I want to help, she had said, telling him the details of what Baelish was teaching her. She told him that she wanted to make a difference, a true difference.

He decided then and there that he loved her. 

He didn’t realize, could never have realized, what she truly was. Not until the end. He thought that he had furnished her into a lion, albeit a little one like him, but a lion all the same. 

Sansa Baratheon had never been a lion; she was a Stark. She had teeth and claws and sharp edges.

She was a wolf.  

She cried after he drank the wine that she gave him. He didn’t understand until she began to scream, causing the castle to come running. Shouts filled his ears. His mother was dead. His uncle was dead. His grandfather was dead. Tyrion Lannister had escaped, and Sansa helplessly sobbed that she happened upon the scene. 

Tommen’s vision began to blur. He hadn’t remembered seeing Tyrion. Had his uncle truly done this to him? 

He focused on Sansa’s familiar hand, clasped tightly with his. He knew every contour, every inch of skin. He had memorized it in long meetings, long walks in the garden, long nights where the weight of the crown pressed unbearably hard against his chest. But then she let go, falling easily against a dark blur made of sharp angles. Tommen felt cold at the loss, attempting to focus on the object to which he lost her.

His efforts paid off. For a moment, his vision cleared, and he saw Sansa shaking against the body of a man that he knew well. Littlefinger. How had he arrived so quickly, when his chambers were halfway across the castle? He was shushing her gently, but Tommen saw a familiar smirk in the corner of his mouth. He saw the way the brothel-keep’s arms fell so naturally around his wife, as if they were molded to hold her. He saw the way that Sansa watched her husband fade, eyes watery and grieving and voice gone hoarse from screaming but still, there was something else. Something he had never seen before.

As he began to go numb, he thought that maybe Sansa had understood that she was meant to be a queen after all. 


End file.
